


Something to be Thankful for

by briaranise



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Coping issues, Drunken dub-con, Fluff, Homesickness, M/M, Moving countries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:05:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briaranise/pseuds/briaranise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving is always hard. Moving to another country is another matter entirely, and Arthur Kirkland isn't so good at coping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something to be Thankful for

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for shadowfaeyre for the USUK Secret Santa 2012 event.
> 
> The original prompt for this fic is 'Human AU. One of them helps the other cope with moving to the opposite country (i.e. Alfred to England or Arthur to America; this could also be done in an AU world) and coping with cultural differences, with a focus on how they handle the cultural differences and trying to start a life, make new friends etc. in a new country. They could be in an established relationship and helping their partner with coping, or they can develop a relationship steadily as one tries to learn how to adapt to the new culture. Just as long as there is a focus on learning to adapt and adopt customs! Bonus if a holiday is mentioned (such as Arthur coping with the crazy 4th of July or Thanksgiving customs, or Alfred with understanding Guy Fawkes). Comedy is preferred, but bits of drama (like homesickness, etc.) and so on is fine too, so long as the outcome is happy.'
> 
> I know I went a little off-track, but I hope it's still an enjoyable read! Please see the end of the fic for more notes.

The night sky was only just beginning to lighten when the aeroplane finally touched down upon American soil. Tired, grumpy and feeling more than a little bit lonely, Arthur Kirkland held onto his carry-on bags firmly and pushed his way through the crowd. Around him, many people were throwing their bags down onto the middle of the floor and rushing towards friends, family or lovers to hug or kiss each other in greeting. He did his best to ignore them, instead making his way down to the luggage collection belts.

No one would be coming to greet him.

He hastily collected the rest of his luggage and piled it onto a hired trolley before wheeling it outside to the taxi rank. The weather there was very different to what he was used to back home in England, and he hastily shrugged off his overcoat as he came into contact with the warm September air. The line moved very slowly and by the time he was being ushered into a taxi-cab, Arthur felt almost faint. He had quite the history of fainting spells, even when it came to fairly mild heat.

"Where are you off to?" the driver asked as he loaded Arthur's luggage into the boot of the car.

Glad for any sort of friendliness, Arthur quickly told him the name of the University and got into the car. Though it was clean, it smelt faintly of a mixture of hamburgers and air freshener, a combination that did nothing to soothe the headache that was gradually building.

They chatted amicably for a while as they made their way towards the University, until the sun began to rise over the horizon and Arthur's eyelids began to droop. Soon enough they arrived and the man stopped the meter, turning to Arthur expectantly.

"A-ah, right—" Arthur fumbled in his coat pocket for his wallet. Upon opening it, he stared at the American currency in dismay, regretting that he hadn't taken the time to familiarise himself with the different notes and coins. After struggling for almost ten minutes, Arthur handed over near-exact payment and climbed out of the car. He expected the driver to help him with his luggage again, but was surprised to find the man staying in the driver's seat, glaring. The boot clicked open and, after gaping at the man wordlessly for a moment, Arthur frowned and hefted the rest of his suitcases out of the car. Bemused, he slammed the boot closed, only to be given the finger. The man drove off quickly, leaving Arthur standing in front of the University with far too many suitcases and bags.

"Fuck." It was nearing six o'clock in the morning and the street was still fairly empty. Surely he could risk leaving some bags here, and come back for them once he'd gotten everything sorted out? He would just have to be quick, he decided. But which bags contained his most valuable or important items?

As he pondered, another taxi-cab pulled up to the curb and several drunk students tumbled out. The boys had obviously been out all night and they smelt heavily of sweat and alcohol.

"Fresh blood!" one of them crowed excitedly, staggering over towards Arthur. He slung an arm around Arthur's shoulder and clung on tightly, even when Arthur attempted to shrug him off. "Where're you from?"

"Get off," Arthur hissed, shoving harder at the boy. "Don't touch me!"

One of the other boys pulled out something black and pointed it towards him, and Arthur felt the blood drain from his face. It wasn't as if guns didn't exist back in England, but Arthur had never seen someone pull one out so brazenly before. He'd never been threatened with one before. This wasn't what he'd expected at all. He tried to take a step back, feeling ill from just looking at the weapon.

"Play nice," the man with the gun sang, waving it around carelessly. He seemed to be the least drunk of the three of them, but he still leant in close to peer at Arthur's face. Arthur flinched as the man's shoulder-length blond brushed against his cheek, but didn't dare move.

"Hey now, shouldn't  _you_  play nice, Francey?"

The voice was accompanied by a large, tanned hand that seized the gun twisted it out of the man's grip. Arthur wrenched himself backwards and stumbled, his knees feeling weak and unable to support his weight. As he sunk down to the ground, shaking and nauseous, he caught sight of his saviour: tall, blond and relatively muscular, in jogging clothes and glasses. His mind was in a panic, unable to understand the words that were being spoken between the strangers. Soon enough, though, the drunkards staggered away and the one remaining man held out a hand.

"Hi! You're new, right? I'm Al. Don't mind those guys."

Arthur clapped a hand over his mouth and dry retched. Was this really that normal for Americans? Did they all carry guns, threaten each other and almost sexually harass each other on a regular basis? His stomach rolled again and he let out a tiny, pathetic whimper. He was beyond tired and stressed, and now he had been assaulted. How was he supposed to handle living here when he couldn't even seem to stop shaking?

"Aww, geez. C'mon then, dude." Al grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. "Seriously, don't freak out. See? It's not a real gun." He waved the gun around in Arthur's face, causing the Briton to blanch and attempt to move away. "Francis is in Drama. It's just a prop."

Arthur refused to look at the gun, regardless of whether or not it was fake. He could feel his cheeks flush with embarrassment. "I just want to find student services, have a room assigned to me and  _sleep_ ," he muttered, stubbornly picking up as many of his bags as possible as he attempted to support himself on trembling legs. "Go away."

"I'll help!" Al immediately picked up the rest of the bags and entered the University grounds, dragging the rolling suitcases along behind him. "So, where're ya from?"

"Overseas." Arthur wanted to be short with the boy. He wanted Al to go away and leave him alone.

"Wow! I was born here, you know. I've never even left the States. But that's no biggie, there's heaps that I haven't seen here yet," the American rambled as he lead the way. Arthur had no choice but to follow, seeing as his luggage was being held hostage.

Soon enough, Arthur was surveying his new room with pursed lips. It was small, but that was only to be expected of on-campus accommodation. Al put down the bags, beaming.

"I'm right across the hall!" the man exclaimed. "We're practically neighbours!"

"Wonderful," Arthur groaned sarcastically. "I'm simply ecstatic."

Al only beamed. "Classes start tomorrow, you know, so if you wanted I could give you a bit of a tour later! Just let me know which buildings your classes are in and I'll take you there!"

It would certainly be helpful, Arthur decided. But first, he wanted to take a nap. "I'll check my diary," he mumbled, wondering if he had any meetings scheduled with academic officials. "Your room is—"

"Dude," Al interrupted, chortling in glee. "You keep a diary? Isn't that something girls do?"

Arthur glared at the boy. "I'll have you know that it is very important to keep on top of important dates!"

His words only seemed to send Al into further bouts of laughter. "You are so  _gay_ , man!"

Tired, irritated and now very offended, Arthur immediately shoved Alfred backwards through the doorway. "Leave," he hissed. "I don't want to speak to you ever again. Thank you for your help today, but I no longer wish to be in the company of such a insufferable git!" Before the other boy could say anything, he slammed the door shut and backed away towards the bed. "You don't know  _anything_ ," he mumbled viciously to the empty room.

* * *

The first day of classes was absolutely awful. The lecture halls were so big that it was almost impossible to meet anyone. The few people who  _did_  take an interest in him quickly lost interest as soon as they discovered his reluctance to speak about his life back in England. He found it difficult to understand his lecturer's accent but felt reluctant to ask for clarification. He also became lost multiple times as he searched for classrooms. Why on earth didn't Americans have a  _ground floor_?

Not for the first time, he wondered if he was going to be able to survive here. But then he remembered that he didn't exactly have a choice.

After a long day of not understanding a single thing, Arthur slowly made his way back towards his dorm. How was he supposed to learn if he couldn't understand the accents or the words being used? Americans spoke so strangely, and used such strange words. Nothing made sense. Why  _epinephrine_  instead of  _adrenaline_? And why did they have to spell their words so oddly?

He froze as he entered the corridor that his dorm was located in. There was something on the ground outside of his door. Arthur cautiously made his way over to the basket and peered into it. Nestled atop crumpled cellophane were a box of English Breakfast tea bags, a packet of chocolate digestives and a note. He carefully extracted the folded paper, glancing behind him to make sure no one was watching.

 _Sorry if I made you mad_ , was scrawled on it in messy print.  _I bought these from one of those import stores, maybe it will make you feel better? I guess you miss home. You're British so you like British stuff, right? Anyway I hope you like them. Sorry again. From Alfred F. Jones._

Arthur took a long look at the basket, feeling a strange lump in his throat that refused to go away. The brands were familiar, and for a moment he felt as if he had never left England at all. He couldn't even bring himself to be upset with the American for generalising about British people. Slowly, he picked up the basket and entered his room. He couldn't bring himself to face Alfred now. And as he sat on his lumpy, uncomfortable bed and inhaled the familiar scent of tea leaves, he had never felt more lonely before in his life.

In an effort to take his mind off things, he arranged his textbooks neatly on the shelf provided and sat down to attempt to study. Arthur dug through his bags until he unearthed his laptop, charger and adaptor and crouched down to find a power point. He ducked under the desk, the charger cord trailing after him but stopped short when he caught sight of the power point. His hands began to tremble and the lump in his throat returned, more solid and painful than ever.

There was no switch. How was he supposed to use it if there was no switch? The trembling gradually became more pronounced until he dropped the charger cord completely. Where was the bloody  _switch_?

There was a strange, weak whimper coming from somewhere. It wasn't until a loud knocking came from his door, shaking him from whatever distressed stupor he'd fallen into, that he realised the sound was coming from  _him_. Arthur reached up and was shocked to find that his cheeks were wet. What on earth was  _wrong with him_?

The knocking became louder and more insistent. Arthur drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face against them, huddling beneath the desk like a child. He couldn't stop shaking, and he couldn't stop that horrible sound that continued to escape his lips.

"Arthur? Open the door!"

The voice seemed familiar but so far away. He clamped his hands over his ears, feeling as if he was beginning to hyperventilate. There was some sort of commotion in the hallway and suddenly someone was gripping his arms, bodily dragging him out from beneath the desk. Arthur thrashed and kicked, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a safe place, alone.

"Arthur! Calm down, man! It's me, Al!" The American gave him a quick shake. Arthur slowly lifted his head, his thin chest still heaving. "That's right," Alfred encouraged. "Look at me. Breathe, in and out. Relax."

Arthur struggled to obey, coughing and dry-retching as he tried to calm his breathing down. Alfred placed a hand against Arthur's chest, pushing firmly before withdrawing slightly in an attempt to force the Briton to breathe properly. He repeated the motion several times before Arthur caught on, inhaling and exhaling to that pattern.

"There," Alfred said finally. "See? You're fine. It's okay. No need to panic."

"I…" Arthur didn't dare look up. "Alfred…?"

"That's my name," the American attempted to joke. He quickly sobered though, absently rubbing at Arthur's back in a soothing manner. "I came to see if you got the stuff, and I could hear you through the door. The guys from student services let me in. You okay?"

"No." Arthur replied in a tiny voice. "No. I hate it. I hate it here. Everything's so big, and loud, and bright and  _different_ … I hate all of it. But I can't go back. I'm stuck here now. I'm stuck here and I  _hate_  it."

"Hey now, it's not so bad." Alfred realised where his hands were and awkwardly tried to shift them. "I'll show you, okay? I'll teach you all there is to know about being an American. You'll feel right at home in no time!"

The only reply he got was a weak nod against his shoulder. But it was enough. Alfred promised himself that he wouldn't let this strange, prickly yet  _vulnerable_  man go through this transition alone.

* * *

For three days, Arthur tried to avoid the bubbly American. British gentlemen were  _not_  supposed to have emotional breakdowns in the arms of strange men. It was horribly embarrassing and Arthur knew that he'd never be able to live it down. Alfred tried to corner him almost daily on his way to and from classes and in the corridors surrounding their dorms.

Eventually, Arthur had to face him. The Briton steeled himself when the familiar knock came on his door and opened it.

"Oh, hey." Alfred grinned, his fist still raised to knock. "So you're talking to me again?"

Arthur had the decency to flush with shame. "I'm sorry; you didn't deserve to be treated that way." He stepped back from the door, gesturing. "Would you like to come in?"

"Sure." Alfred strode into the room and quite happily seated himself on Arthur's bed. "So, we never exactly introduced ourselves. I mean, I told you my name and I sort of asked other people for your name – in a totally uncreepy way! – but we haven't really, yanno. Introduced ourselves." He fidgeted boyishly for a moment, before standing and holding out a hand. "I'm Alfred F. Jones! It's nice to meet you!"

Arthur hesitated for a moment before shaking the other man's hand. "My name is Arthur Kirkland. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

"See? That right there." The American laughed uproariously. "Why do you talk like that? Just speak normal, dude."

"I  _do_  speak normally!" Arthur protested, feeling his temper rise. "Just because  _you_  don't speak properly, doesn't mean that I should change my speech to suit!"

"Okay, okay." Alfred tried to stop laughing, holding up his hands in a placating manner. "So, you speak like an old man. We gotta teach you to speak your age!"

He spent the next few hours trying to teach Arthur American slang and idioms. Arthur became increasingly frustrated with how _strange_  Americans were, but he had to admit that it was nice to have someone to talk to. It was nice to feel just a tiny bit less lonely.

* * *

Arthur tightened the strap on his bag nervously as he waited outside the café. Alfred had arranged to meet him there, but the American appeared to be running late. He shifted from foot to foot self-consciously, loathe to enter the café alone. Back in England he wouldn't have thought twice about doing just that, but here in America he wasn't sure if it would be appropriate.

"Artie!" Alfred came dashing into view, and Arthur's heart sank when he saw that there were people accompanying him. "Sorry, did you wait long? Anyway, this is Kiku and this is Mattie and this is Gilbert and Antonio and Francis – I think you've met them before, actually – so let's go inside! Guys, this is Artie!"

"Arthur," he corrected automatically, but it was useless. He was already being shoved inside the café, his weak protests drowned out by the sounds of chatter and the cheerful conversations between Alfred's friends. Suddenly he felt very small and awkward. He didn't know any of these people. What was he supposed to do?

They all managed to cram into a booth. Arthur found himself squashed between Francis, the drunkard who had threatened him with a fake gun, and Kiku, a quiet yet intense Japanese boy. He fidgeted uncomfortably, trying to signal to Alfred, who was sitting directly across from him, that he wanted to leave.

"So, Arthur is your name." Francis slung an arm over Arthur's shoulders. "I feel as if we have met before."

"Physical contact is  _not_  appreciated." Arthur tried to shrug him off, but it was difficult when eight people were crammed into a six-person booth.

"So, Arthur," Kiku began, his accent strong enough that Arthur had a hard time understanding. "I understand that you come from England?"

"Isn't that obvious?" he muttered sharply, his hands clenching into fists. Why did everyone always have to  _ask_? What kind of person expected people to talk about themselves so openly? Kiku was obviously asking for personal information. He  _didn't want to talk about it_.

"Chill, man." Alfred was frowning at him from across the table, and suddenly he just wanted to curl up and disappear. "It was just a question. No need to snap about it. Everyone else here is foreign, too. I though you'd feel more, I dunno… like you fit in? These guys are learning all about America, too! Well, except Mattie. Matt's my bro. Literally."

Arthur looked away, shamefaced. He knew that Alfred was only trying to help. "I—I think I should go. I do have a paper due tomorrow, and I really should go proof-read it again. Thank you for inviting me out, but I really should go." He tried to stand, but Kiku stared back at him and refused to move. "Excuse me," he tried again, trying to meet Kiku's eyes but failing.

"My name is Kiku," the Asian man said, still refusing to budge. "I enjoy novels, video games and archery. I am very happy to meet you. All of you."

Taking Kiku's lead, the others began to introduce themselves one by one.

And suddenly, the group didn't feel so full of strangers anymore.

* * *

"So what are your plans for Thanksgiving?" Alfred asked one night as they were walking back towards the dorms. Arthur glanced at his friend quizzically. "C'mon, you know about Thanksgiving, right? I'm heading off tomorrow morning to be home with my folks. What'll you be doing? Going back to England? Or don't they have Thanksgiving there?"

Arthur shook his head. "We don't celebrate… Thanksgiving. And I'll be staying here, at the University."

"Do you want to?" Alfred bit his lip, a frown on his face. "I mean, I think a lot of people are going home, or going  _somewhere_ … Do you really wanna be here by yourself? If you want, I'm sure my 'rents wouldn't mind if you came with. Thanksgiving's a time for family, but if yours is so far away, then… I wouldn't mind if you shared mine, yanno."

What a sweet,  _sweet_  boy. Arthur fidgeted with his keys, but forced himself to look the other man in the eyes. "No, that shan't be necessary. As you said, Thanksgiving is a time for family. I'd hate to intrude, and besides…" he turned and slotted his key into his door, determinedly facing away from Alfred. "What do  _I_  have to be thankful for?"

Before the American could respond, Arthur shoved his door open and dashed into his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. There was no need to intrude on someone else's family.

When Alfred returned from Thanksgiving with his family, Arthur stubbornly acted as if their conversation had never occurred.

* * *

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat, boxed in on either side by Alfred and Francis. He'd been invited to dinner at a nearby restaurant and couldn't find a reason to decline. Everyone was happily devouring their food, but he couldn't seem to overcome his horror long enough to eat.

Alfred was eating in a most uncivilised manner. How was the boy even allowed outside? Arthur watched as Alfred cut his food into bite-sized pieces before putting down his knife and switching his fork over to his right hand. Who on earth taught the boy to eat that way?

Distracted as he was, he didn't notice the fork in front of his face until it was almost too late.

"Try some?" Francis offered, smirking. "I ordered the same as Alfred; you needn't gaze at his food in such a manner. Here, try."

Arthur pulled back, eyeing the fork in distaste. "Thank you, but I'd rather not—"

"Hey now, Artie can have some of mine. Right? Here, have some!" Alfred was suddenly in his face too, shoving his plate in front of the Briton.

"I really don't—"

"Try mine!" Alfred demanded again, pouting a bit. Arthur frowned but was unable to resist Alfred's puppy eyes.

"All right," he agreed, picking up his fork and knife. The smile he got in return made his chest feel warm and tingly inside.

* * *

"What are you doing for Christmas and New Year's?" Alfred asked in a manner that seemed eerily reminiscent of the Thanksgiving incident. Instead of a cheery grin, this time he sported a pensive frown. "You're not staying here alone again, are you?"

"You say that as if it's a bad thing." Arthur continued walking, slipping his gloved fingers into the pockets of his pea coat. "And besides, Kiku stayed here during Thanksgiving. I wasn't alone."

"Well I know for a fact that Kiku is headed to D.C. for Christmas to meet up with his parents. They're going touring here in the States, or something." Alfred pouted, tugging at Arthur's bag. "Are you going back to England this time?"

"No, I'm not going back."

"Oh, um, well…" It was obvious that the American was dying to  _ask_  and  _pry_  and rip Arthur's last remaining vestiges of pride to shreds, but he visibly restrained himself. "…you wanna come with me to my parents' place?"

Arthur made an exasperated sound and whirled to face him. "Why do you keep asking? Why is this so important to you?"

"I'm just trying to help, okay?" Alfred grabbed Arthur by the arm. "You know, because that's what  _friends_  do?"

"I don't  _need_  your help!" Arthur ignored the people poking their heads out of their dorms in curiosity. "What do you think you are, some sort of hero?"

"Well I'm  _trying_ to be!"

"Well  _don't_!"

They stared each other off for a long moment before Alfred backed off. "Fine," he muttered darkly. "Fine. Go be miserable by yourself at Christmas. I was only trying to help, but I guess you don't need me to." He spun on his heel and strode towards his room, fumbling with his keys for a moment before entering his room and slamming the door.

Arthur pretended that he didn't care, but by the time everyone left for Christmas he couldn't deny it. He wished he'd gone with Alfred. He wished he'd done anything, other than force himself to wallow in this loneliness.

When Christmas Eve arrived, he half-heartedly dived into his studies and did his best to forget Alfred and his offers of a Christmas to remember.

* * *

The other students began to trickle back onto campus after New Years celebrations. Arthur pointedly ignored the room across the hall, convincing himself that Alfred would approach him first, just like last time. Alfred would knock on his door with his big, stupid grin and Arthur would forgive him in a heartbeat.

It came as a shock, then, when Alfred made absolutely no move to talk to Arthur. Classes gradually resumed but Alfred appeared to be avoiding the Briton. It hurt, but Arthur knew that it was his fault.

He always managed to push people away.

He was too awkward to approach Alfred first. Apologising wasn't his forte. He had no idea how to go about approaching the other man. It didn't help that whenever he caught sight of the American, his breath would catch in his throat and his heart would beat faster. No, there was no way that he could approach Alfred to apologise. But the feeling of guilt continued to plague him. Alfred had only been trying to help, after all.

He only had two options, in the end: face his problem, or ignore it.

He called Francis, his decision made. He needed alcohol, and lots of it.

* * *

After the first drink, Arthur felt his muscles beginning to relax. He was a light-weight, but enjoyed the blissful numbness that accompanied drinking. There were several attractive men peppered around the room, and Arthur made it a game to make eye contact with them and send sultry smirks in an effort to sort the gay from the straight. One man seemed particularly interested, gradually drifting closer to where Arthur was sitting and even buying him a few drinks.

There was something familiar about the man, but after five drinks it was becoming hard to think straight. Besides, blond hair and blue eyes were common in America. The fact that this man had those features meant nothing at all. He certainly wasn't pining after some good-for-nothing sod who wouldn't talk to him first.

The man's hands moved from Arthur's shoulder to his waist to his thighs, tracing small circles that sent heat spiking to his groin. When the stranger leaned in to whisper dirty promises into his ear, Arthur only responded eagerly. Even through the haze of alcohol, he knew what was going to happen.

A one night stand was better than nothing at all.

"Wanna leave, darl?"

He nodded.

* * *

Francis looked away from the girl he was chatting up and cast a wary glance towards the door. As Arthur left with a strange man, Francis smirked and excused himself. He had a very important phone call to make.

* * *

"Look, I don't want to get inside," Alfred repeated impatiently. "I want to pick someone up. He's sort of this tall," he gestured, "and he's blond." When the bouncer continued to stare at him blankly, he huffed and thought hard. "Okay, so he's got these massive eyebrows…"

"Oh,  _him_." The bouncer seemed relieved when Alfred stopped glaring and instead looked at him hopefully. "Last I saw, he was around there." He jerked a thumb at the dark, suspicious-looking alley-way around the corner. "Dunno if you wanna interrupt, though."

Alfred frowned but nodded at the man in thanks. He tentatively followed the direction he'd been pointed in, stepping blindly into the darkened alley. The sight that he was met with made him feel both furious and sick to his stomach all at once.

Arthur was pinned to the rough brick wall, his hands held tightly above his head as a nameless stranger plundered his mouth greedily. The man drew back, running a hand down Arthur's front and slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of Arthur's trousers. The Briton slumped slightly, his half-lidded eyes fluttering slightly as he whimpered and jerked his hips slightly. There was no mistaking that Arthur was completely and utterly drunk.

"Hey!" Alfred shouted, unable to take the sight of his best friend being taken advantage of any longer. "Get off him!"

The man looked around in surprise, but grinned drunkenly when he spotted him. "Won't take long with him, man."

"I said  _get the fuck off him_ ," Alfred repeated, drawing himself up to his full height and stepping towards the pair threateningly. "Don't touch him!"

Even drunk, the man had enough sense to back off quickly. "Your boyfriend's a real slut, dude," he said as he released Arthur. The Briton quickly crumpled against the wall, but his hand shot out and fisted itself in the stranger's shirt weakly. "Might wanna reconsider this one."

"Don't talk about him like that!" Alfred snapped, but the man had quickly wandered further down the alley and the American was loath to follow him. "Anyway," he mumbled to himself, "he's not my boyfriend." He glanced at the pitiful heap on the ground and sighed. "C'mon, Artie. Let's get you back to the dorms."

Arthur refused to stand up, remaining slumped on the ground. "Why did you do that?" he slurred, his accent much thicker than usual.

"Because he was a creep and you're really drunk?" Alfred looped his friend's arm around his neck and hoisted the man to his feet. "Seriously, Artie. What do you mean, why?"

"He paid attention to me." Arthur gave a soft sigh and buried his face against Alfred's shoulder. "He wanted me, if only for a little while. He  _wanted_  me."

"Well what about me? What if  _I_  want you?"

He'd meant it in a completely innocent way, but before he knew it Arthur's eyes were wide and filled with something not unlike hope. He didn't have time to react before Arthur gripped his shirt and kissed him solidly on the lips. Alfred immediately shoved him away in disgust, tasting alcohol and cigarette smoke, most likely from the other guy Arthur had been making out with only minutes earlier. "Arthur!" he shouted, exasperated. "Just… don't, okay? Let's go back to the dorms. Don't kiss me."

"Why?" Arthur drooped, looking hurt and humiliated. "Why don't you want me?"

" _Because_. I'm not gay, man. You're one of my best friends, but… I'm not gay."

But even as he said it, he found himself admiring the curve of Arthur's flushed cheeks and the sweep of his eyelashes, and he wasn't sure if he believed himself.

* * *

Arthur moaned quietly as he woke, his head pounding. He turned his face to the side and burrowed deeper into the blankets that were wrapped around him.

"Arthur."

He groaned and tried to pull the covers up over his head in an attempt to muffle the voice. His plan backfired when the covers were gabbed and dragged off the bed, bringing him down with them.

"Fucking hell!" he swore, clutching at his head and making a weak attempt to sit up. "What—" He cut himself off, flinching, as he met Alfred's intense glare.

"We need to talk, Arthur." The American sat down on the edge of the bed, his gaze never wavering.

"Fuck," Arthur mumbled. He stared down at his lap, twisting a corner of the bed covers between his hands. "What did I do last night?"

"Aside from making out with a complete stranger and almost getting fucked in an alley?" Alfred bit out, obviously bordering on furious. "Francis had to call me at almost  _three in the morning_ , just to come and get your sorry ass. You didn't even have your phone with you!"

"Well if it was such a hassle, next time you needn't bother!" Arthur snapped, finally looking up. His face was flushed with shame and humiliation, but his eyes were narrowed defiantly. "It's not as if this is the first time this has happened, and it definitely won't be the last. I don't need you to come swooping in, playing  _hero_."

"Damn it, you jerk! This isn't about being a hero. This is about  _you_! I mean, I've kinda known for a while but you're definitely not okay. Do you know what else you did last night? Do you know what you said?" He ripped the glasses from his face and rubbed at his eyes wearily. "You're not  _okay_ , Arthur. You kept  _ranting_  about stuff that I don't get. You're not happy. And fucking some random guy—even if that guy is  _me_ —isn't going to make things any better for you."

"I—did I honestly try to—" Arthur's face went almost completely white, and for a moment Alfred was concerned that the Briton would pass out. "W-well I—"

"You did. You kissed me, and when I pushed you away you got real clingy and shit. The entire way back here, you kept trying to get into my pants. You wouldn't even let go of me, which is why you're in  _my_  room instead of yours. Seriously, what the fuck, man? Why are you here if you hate it so much? What's  _wrong_  with you?"

The room was completely silent for a moment, before Arthur shakily climbed to his feet. "Do you honestly think I wouldn't go back in a heartbeat, if only I could?" he snarled, gesturing wildly. "I was  _exiled_! My father could barely stand having a bastard son around to soil the family name and affect  _his_  career. When the press found out that I was shagging blokes… If he could have, he would've had me killed on the spot. But since that wasn't an option, sending me away and hoping that everyone, including him, forgot about me was the next best thing." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Do you think I  _liked_  being plucked from the only sort of life I knew, and cast into American society? I barely understand what you people are  _saying_ , let alone what you're thinking. I  _hate it here_. But I  _can't go back_. I would give almost anything to simply give up my name and go back as a nobody, but I  _can't_."

"Arthur, calm down—"

"Neither my mother nor my father ever wanted me. My brothers are glad to be rid of me. I have no one, and nothing. Is it so bad that I wanted someone to  _look_  at me and  _want_ me, if only for a night? But you don't want me either, and I don't know what to do! I don't know how to make people  _look at me_."

"I'm looking at you!" Alfred shouted finally, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders and shaking him hard. "Can't you see? I'm looking  _right at you_!"

The kiss took both of them completely off-guard. Neither of them were sure who initiated it, but suddenly they were pressed up against each other, lips melding against one another's perfectly.

But then Alfred shoved the other man away roughly. They stood facing each other, flushed and panting.

"Get out."

"Alfred, what—"

"Fuck you! Stop doing this to me! Stop kissing me! I told you before. I'm  _not gay_."

Arthur gaped at him for a moment, before his expression became closed off and furious. "Fuck  _you_ ," he shouted. " _You_  kissed  _me_! You can't say something like that after kissing me!"

"Just… go. Get  _out_."

He did, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

It was shortly after Arthur finished tending to his hangover that Francis came knocking at his door. Kiku was no doubt tending to Alfred at the same time. It hadn't taken long for their friends to notice the widening gap between them, and it was obvious that Francis and the others had finally had enough.

"Can't you go away?" Arthur groaned, rubbing at his forehead. "I'm not in the mood to deal with you."

"Alfred is quite upset. And understandably so."

"Are you saying that this is my fault?"

Francis gazed at him in pity. "In short: yes." He didn't wait to be invited in, and instead pushed his way past Arthur and entered the dorm room. "You are overly possessive of him, but also far too dependent on the poor boy. Your social ineptitude is especially astounding. Your sour, glum attitude is very irritating, and you have a habit of pushing people away when you need them most." He calmly seated himself on the edge of Arthur's bed, neatly crossing one leg over the other. "And yet, despite all of this, I do consider you to be a friend. You couldn't have made it more obvious that you are completely enamoured with the boy, but as you are  _both_  my friends I will say this only once: you are being far too forceful. Back off, before you lose him completely."

"I've already lost him completely." Arthur deflated and took a seat next to him on the bed, his head bowed. Any irritation he'd felt had fled in the face of Francis' words. "God, Francis… is it really so unthinkable that I'd fall for him? He's been the one constant in my life ever since I arrived in this Godforsaken country."

"It's not unthinkable. But you need to ease up. These Americans are not good at seeing such signs."

He knew that Francis was right. It was unhealthy to be so attached to one man, let alone one who did not seem to return his feelings. He was scaring Alfred away.

"What should I do?" he whispered, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "He was just… so  _kind_  to me."

"I know."

"He pays attention to me."

"Arthur." Francis' tone was firm. "Do you love him because he is  _Alfred_ , or because he is merely someone who will look at you?"

Arthur couldn't seem to find an answer.

* * *

The summer holidays were quickly approaching, but Alfred found himself in a complete slump. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't sit still for long enough to study for his upcoming exams. His entire world felt off-kilter, and the only thing that made it worse was the fact that Arthur seemed  _fine_. Wasn't the guy in love with him, or something? Why was Arthur acting  _happy_?

It wasn't that he didn't want Arthur to be happy. The guy deserved that, if all that he'd told Alfred was true. What really irritated him was the fact that Arthur was happy because of  _Francis_. The Briton had been spending more and more time with Francis, Gilbert and Antonio—but mostly Francis. He seemed to become more cheerful and well-adjusted as time went on, and Alfred found himself upset that  _he_  wasn't the one to help Arthur adapt to America properly.

There was also the issue of the kiss. Kisses. Whatever. It was the main thing preventing Alfred from purposefully striding across the corridor and knocking on the familiar door there. Arthur obviously  _liked_  him, but… Alfred wasn't gay.

Was he?

As the days went on and he continued to observe Arthur from afar, he began to increasingly doubt himself. Arthur was cute, in a manly sort of way. The way that he blushed and scowled when he was embarrassed, or the way his whole face lit up when he smiled, or even the way he pouted when he was upset—all of it made Alfred's heart flutter in a very alarming manner.

Arthur didn't seem to need him anymore, though. Alfred partially blamed himself for pushing Arthur away when the Briton had so very obviously needed some support, but he'd felt so  _confused_. He'd never even consciously entertained the idea of being gay until Arthur had kissed him. Sure, he'd admired Arthur's features and intelligence, but he'd never equated it to  _liking_  him.

As it turned out, he didn't have to be the one to approach Arthur first. Only a few days before the end of term, Arthur came knocking at his door.

"Er—Arthur." Alfred paused with the door half open, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

"Well…" Arthur drew the word out uncertainly, fiddling with a loose thread hanging from his sleeve. "I suppose I came to… apologise."

"What?" That hadn't been what Alfred was expecting.  _He_  had been the one intending to apologise.

"I realise that I've greatly inconvenienced you ever since I met you. You took the time to befriend me and teach me about American culture." He made no move to come inside, instead shifting from foot to foot just outside the doorway. "I know that it seems that I was taking advantage of your kindness, or something… but… Thank you for what you've done for me. And… I'm sorry."

He turned to leave, and Alfred's heart leapt into his throat. He couldn't watch Arthur walk away. He couldn't stand the defeated slump of Arthur's shoulders, or the half-mumbled words that he barely caught in time. He was going to lose Arthur.

Arthur had mumbled something softly under his breath. The tiny, sad admission wasn't meant to be heard. But it  _was_ heard, and Alfred made up his mind. He grabbed Arthur by the arm and yanked him bodily into his dorm. Once inside he pinned Arthur against the inside of the door and kissed him roughly. Arthur went completely still, and his eyes were wide when Alfred finally drew back.

"Alfred, w-what—"

"You're not getting rid of me that easily," he growled, dragging Arthur into another searing kiss. They clutched at each other desperately, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to bruise.

"No," Arthur whispered as they finally separated. His expression was lost and confused, but also tentatively hopeful. "No, I suppose not."

* * *

Their first date was a simple dinner-and-movie affair, student-style. After having dinner at a nearby diner, they retreated to the student common room and cuddled up on the couch to watch the film. If any of their friends noticed the new relationship between the two, no one commented on it. They were so wrapped up in each other that they completely missed the knowing looks.

Afterwards, Alfred walked Arthur back to his room. They hesitated in the hallway between their rooms, before sharing a shy kiss.

"I had a nice night," Arthur mumbled, his cheeks flushed an endearing shade of pink.

"Me too," Alfred mumbled back, staring at their linked hands. Screw not being gay, if being gay got him this.

* * *

They weren't sure if their fragile relationship was going to last the summer holidays. Alfred was expected home with his parents and brother, a six-hour drive from the University. Arthur, on the other hand, rented the cheapest flat he could find and worked multiple jobs in order to gain some semblance of independence.

The two kept in touch through calls and text messages for the duration of the holidays. The distance took its toll on them both, but it was entirely worth it when they saw each other at the beginning of the new University year.

* * *

"C'mon, just knock."

Arthur nodded determinedly and, after a quick glance at Alfred, knocked on the door. Almost instantly, the door was flung open and he was enveloped in a bear hug. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and stood stock still as Alfred cackled in glee. Matthew gave them an amused glance and paused to peck his mother on the cheek before disappearing inside the house.

"Ma, this is Artie. Artie, meet my Ma."

"I-I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," Arthur said quickly, inclining his head and stooping his shoulders slightly in a clumsy sort-of-bow. He was panicking. This was Alfred's _mother_. He had to make a good impression. But no—hadn't Alfred made it clear that those words were far too formal? Arthur's expression became even more panicked, but Alfred's mother merely laughed in delight.

"Why, aren't you a polite young man!" she exclaimed, stepping back and gripping his shoulders, turning him this way and that. "You need some more meat on your bones, though," she said critically, eyeing him up and down. "Too skinny. But we've got plenty of food here, so make sure you eat a lot!"

They slowly drifted into the house, where Arthur was horrified to find twenty-odd extended family members, all wanting to know who the stranger was and his connection to Alfred. Couldn't Alfred have picked a gentler way to introduce Arthur to his family? The introductions seemed to go on forever, but no one seemed to openly dislike him. The adults were mostly cordial, the children were innocently interested, and Alfred's female teenage cousins were… very accepting, to say the least.

He attempted to help in the kitchen but was told, not unkindly, that guests shouldn't have to work—after he managed to burn the bottom of the gravy to the pot, of course. Alfred snorted when he heard what Arthur had done, but dutifully led the Briton away to show him his room.

"We don't really have a lot of room in the house right now, as you could probably tell," Alfred said as he pulled a sleeping bag out of his cupboard. "Pa said you could share my room, but we can't share a bed—not that we were going to, or anything, I was just  _saying_ —so you can take the bed and I'll sleep in this."

"I can sleep on the floor," Arthur insisted, reaching out for the sleeping bag. "This is  _your_ house, after all—"

"But  _you're_  the guest—"

They broke off, glaring at each other before dissolving into giggles. There was a shout from the kitchen, and they gave each other one last amused look before following the heavenly scents out towards the dining room. They could argue about sleeping arrangements later. There was delicious food on the table and family all around them.

Arthur meekly held his fork and knife, remembering the time he'd been so shocked at Alfred's table manners, only to find out that they were standard in America. Would these people look at  _him_  strangely now? He fretted internally for a long moment before realising that no one was watching him eat. They were engrossed in conversation and food. Alfred gave him an encouraging nudge and Arthur tucked in heartily, the turkey breast tasting better than anything he'd had before in his life.

"Hey, Artie got a wishbone!" The youngest of Alfred's cousins, who sat on Arthur's other side, stood up on her chair in excitement. "Quick, Artie! Quick!"

Arthur stared at her, bewildered. "What does that mean?" he demanded, turning to Alfred quickly. "'Quick' what?"

"You gotta break it with someone. The person who gets the bigger half gets to make a wish!" Alfred pulled the y-shaped bone from Arthur's plate. "Who wants to break it with Artie?" There was a sudden outburst from the cousins, but the adults all smiled at Alfred expectantly. "Okay, me, then," he chuckled. "Get ready, Art!"

Arthur resisted the urge to pull a face and instead gripped one side of the bone. He could feel everyone's eyes on him and the knowledge that everyone was watching made him anxious. Before he could voice it though, there was a small crack and he stared at the piece of bone in his hand.

"Wish for something, Artie!"

 _I wish for happiness_ , he thought automatically.  _I wish for someone to want me_.

But that wasn't right. He had happiness now, and he had someone who wanted him. As he glanced around the table at the smiling faces, and at Alfred, whose eyes shone with love and affection, he realised something important.

He was celebrating Thanksgiving with a family, and he finally had something to be thankful for.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: I'm neither American nor British, so I was kind of shocked by what I discovered when researching for this fic. Here in Australia we tend to follow British conventions though! Here are some of the things I found out and included in the fic:
> 
> 1) In the States, it is standard to add a monetary tip to payments for services. This includes tipping waitresses, bartenders, porters and taxi-cab drivers. Not tipping is considered very rude and will usually result in people being (rightfully!) offended.
> 
> 2) People in Britain (and in Australia!) have a common belief that all people in the States carry guns and are generally very trigger-happy since gun laws are more lax there than they are in the UK.
> 
> 3) Apparently Americans are much more likely to ask very personal questions and pry about someone's background. While no less friendly, people from the UK tend to be a bit more reticent about personal matters.
> 
> 4) A diary in the States is what teenage girls typically use to de-stress and write down secrets etc. A diary in the UK is a daily planner, where you keep note of meetings and events.
> 
> 5) In buildings in the US, the bottom level of a multi-storey building is known as the first floor. The floor above is the second floor. In the UK, the bottom level is known as the ground floor, with the first floor above that.
> 
> 6) Adrenaline, one of the hormones responsible for the fight-or-flight response, is known (scientifically) as epinephrine in the US. I included this one because I somehow spent my entire first year at university confused and convinced that these were two different things!
> 
> 7) Power point is a name used in the UK referring to wall power sockets. The power points in the UK have switches so that even if you leave something plugged in, you can turn the power off. Apparently power points in the US don't have these switches!
> 
> 8) In the UK, people eat using European/Continental style. This involves the fork being placed in the left hand, and the knife in the right for the entire duration of the mean (except when putting it down to drink, etc). In the US, people eat using the American style of etiquette, in which the fork is held in the right hand and the knife is put down unless a piece of food is being cut, during which the fork is transferred to the left hand and the knife is held in the right.
> 
> Whew, I think that's everything. A big thank you goes to Empress Vegah, who beta-ed for me and listened to me whine the entire time I was writing this.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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